Our Art teacher had this idea we should make Art for the Blind. She said “tactile”, which sounded good. What it meant was razor-blading avocado remnants from DeLuxe Carpet, owned by Caro Szczepanski’s dad, a successful businessman in our downtrodden steel town... successful, at least till the bankruptcy rumours. Caro herself seemed untouched by squalor, steel or shag. In vintage petticoats, with her ash-blonde hair now covered with a cloche, now stuck with charcoal crepe magnolias, she floated obstinately through the cafeteria’s French-fried fug. She was Art – a perpetual, brave performance of it – and we, too blind to see.